Valkyrie
by Gramnegative
Summary: What happens when the Goddesses and Gods of Roanapur have to confront their own weaknesses. Rated M for language, violence and later adult content.
1. Chapter 1

**Partnerships**

The scream of incoming mortar shells was not something Balalaika could forget, not even 10 years after Afghanistan. She buried her head down into the soft jungle floor, silently whispering the blasphemous but universal soldier's prayer, "Lord, for what we are about to receive…"

The explosion, several hundred yards away, meant either the guerillas had found another target or she had finally lost them. Regardless, she had to get moving. Orienting herself by stars glimpsed through a jungle canopy, she selected her next move through the brush and then looked down at her blood soaked charge. "Time to go," she said, grabbing Chang by his coat collar and dragging his unmoving form along the trail once again.

_12 Hours Earlier_

"What a godforsaken rathole this place is," Balalaika said, mostly to herself. The drowning dampness of the jungle seemed to seep into the sedan's interior despite the air conditioning. Her clothes felt like they were tacked to her skin, and she could only imagine what her hair looked like. She longed for the ease of her uniform and the comfort of an AK in her arms. Life as the commander of Hotel Moscow had taken away the simplicity of a soldier's existence.

Images, however, had to be maintained. Her signature red business suit and luxurious mane of hair had become a trademark of sorts. Intimidating to her opponents, distracting to any nearby male and no few females. Hotel Moscow's new supplier had been suitably impressed, although Chang seemed to find their reactions quite amusing. At least someone had been entertained. Balalaika found the entire meeting with the Triad and the Bautista Family in Mindanao to be drawn out and frustrating. Although the final results had been satisfactory, Chang's childish sense of humor and frequent needling had been beyond irritating.

If he had addressed her as 'Fry Face' one more time in front of the Bautista's she would have shot him. She should have been prepared for this. The first joint venture between Hotel Moscow and the Triad was bound to be problematic. It was necessitated by a much more effective US interdiction of their normal supply lines through Myanmar. How the US had gotten such good intelligence was an open question, but it created a need, for both her organization and Chang's, to diversify their suppliers.

The Bautista family was new to both groups, but had recently converted much of their farmland in Mindanao from rice to a more lucrative crop of poppy. The resulting high grade black tar was of great interest to her and Chang.

Still, now that the deal was done, she could dismiss his silly comments and move on to more important things.

Except she couldn't.

Sometimes Balalaika was convinced he wanted to provoke her into another gunfight. Unconsciously, she massaged her side over one of the scars his dragons had left three years ago. Despite her outward loathing of him as jumped up gutter trash, she had to admit he was actually quite capable.

She would always wonder how a man like him ended up working for such a disgusting organization. For a moment her mind came to an abrupt halt and she laughed quietly at the irony of her thoughts. A decorated Soviet officer now working for a bloodthirsty criminal gang looks down on a decorated police officer for doing the same?

Hearing her laughter, Boris' stolid voice responded inquiringly from beside her "Capitan?" he asked.

"It's nothing Sergeant. I was just wondering at the vagaries of fate. It's hardly a wonder that Chekov was a Russian," she replied.

Boris grunted, leaning back, sensing she expected no reply.

Strangely, feeling the need for conversation, she continued. "I miss the changing seasons of St. Petersburg. Where were you from, Sergeant?"

Boris seemed off put by the question. Despite serving together for many years, they rarely talked of personal matters. After a long hesitation he replied simply, "Moscow, Capitan."

Before she could ask anything else Boris turned to look out the window. Balalaika felt the car slow. In her distracted state she hadn't even noticed their arrival at the tiny airstrip.

She was surprised to see Chang standing by the only hangar, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. Per agreement, Chang's party had left 15 minutes ahead of her. This way he and his two bodyguards would be off the ground before Hotel Moscow arrived. Such staging tended to prevent the kind of 'misunderstandings' that had cost both parties dearly in the past.

Her driver, Corporal Konev, opened her door as Chang approached, hands in pockets, an insolent smile on his face.

The problem became apparent quickly. Chang's flight had suffered a mechanical failure as evidenced by the open engine cowling and the pilot being up to his armpits in grease.

"So Fry Face, looks like we get to share a flight," he said grinning.

"Unfortunately, Chang, my aircraft is far too small for you and your men," she said. Smiling innocently, she waved to her vehicle. "You are, however, welcome to my sedan. It's only a fourteen hour drive to the next airport."

Inside she was laughing. The roads were muck at best, lethal at worst. Not to mention the Moro guerillas who controlled much of the intervening territory. They had no love for Chinese.

Chang frowned. "Come on Balalaika," he began wheedling.

It was then that she heard the first mortar shells launch.

"Down!" she screamed, twisting just long enough to confirm Boris and Konev had gone to cover.

Chang hesitated for a second, and then dropped down beside her. He didn't instinctively recognize incoming mortar sounds, but the rip of a heavy machinegun and many smaller weapons got his attention just as effectively.

"What the fuck," he began, pulling out his dragons and lifting his head to scan the eastern hillside, several hundred meters distant. Muzzle flashes made it look like a dance of fireflies in the approaching sunset. "The Bautista's guaranteed this area was safe," he said, anger evident in his tone.

Holding her own Tokarev, she replied laughing, "You are out of your depth, Chang. The Bautista's have little if any influence over the Moro's. Our best hope was always on getting in and out quickly."

Chang looked at her disbelievingly. "Then why the fuck did you agree to come?"

He had assumed that if Balalaika was willing to attend, then it was likely a safe bet. That was why he had agreed, along with her, to only bring two bodyguards, hoping not to attract attention.

"The return, Chang, the return. Large payoffs require large risks," she replied.

Before Chang could say another word, one of the mortar rounds landed. Whether by luck or good aim, it obliterated Balalaika's small Cessna. The flaming fragments knocked one of Chang's men to the ground with a sickening splat.

The next few rounds landed near Balalaika's sedan. Konev began screaming, dropping his AK and tightly clutching one leg.

Balalaika took a few seconds to analyze the situation. Estimated number of attackers, direction of mortar rounds, possible escape routes…..gestalt. "Sergeant, take Konev and evac west four klicks. You," she snapped, looking at Chang's remaining bodyguard, "assist the Sergeant and we will rendezvous in 30 minutes."

Chang's bodyguard looked questioningly, but after a second's hesitation, Chang acquiesced. "Bui, help him. We'll catch up."

Boris paused only long enough to toss Konev's AK to Balalaika. "Good hunting, Capitan," he said with obvious confidence. Throwing the wounded man over his shoulder, he began a zigzagging run to the west.

Bui followed, stopping occasionally to snap off some half-aimed shots.

"So what now, Fry Face?" Chang asked, seriously nonplussed.

"Why now, my dear Chang, we provide a distraction," she said flashing him the most dazzling smile he had ever seen her give.

With that she jumped up, running south and parallel to their attackers. Chang had no choice but to follow.

_A/N Many thanks to my editor, the always wonderful Unkeptsecret. She convinced me (kicked my a**) to write again as therapy. Working 60 hours a week makes Gram the exceedingly dull person. Also thanks to the many writers here who keep writing some really good stuff :-) _


	2. Chapter 2

**Changes**

Kneeling, listening for sounds of pursuit, Balalaika offered up silent thanks. With the falling of darkness, even in the full moonlight, her red suit and blond hair were no longer the bright targets they had been. Despite numerous attempts to double back, there were simply too many guerillas. Still, she had no worries about Boris. This wasn't the first such situation they had been in. Her focus now had to be on finding a way out of here.

Chang paused beside her, alertly scanning the surroundings. They had been evading the Moros for nearly two hours. In that time she had not seen any sign of panic in him. Not even the type of wild shooting even trained troops resorted to in their first military style firefight.

She would never admit it, but she was impressed.

"Balalaika," he whispered before a slashing hand silenced him.

She leaned close, intimately touching his ear with her lips. "We wait for 15 minutes. If we hear nothing we turn west and rendezvous."

Chang reversed their positions, his words barely more than a breath emptied into her ear. "We need water."

She nodded in acknowledgement.

As she rested, listening, she began to hear a distant, but distinct rhythm. American Hueys. Her mind ran through the briefing packet Boris had provided before the start of the mission. There was a large Philippine Army garrison 40 km away from the landing strip. They might have caught wind of something.

A minute later, she began to hear the telltale sounds of rockets and small arms. "They must have night vision on those helos," she mused.

Unfortunately, the whipping of bullets through jungle leaves began approaching their position.

"Time to move, Chang," she whispered, pulling at his sleeve. As he rose from his crouch to follow, four men burst onto the trail 50 meters away. She paused, hoping they had not been spotted, but one of the men, more alert than the others, turned towards them and began firing from his hip.

She returned two short bursts from her AK, hoping to spoil their aim. The men went to ground, but continued to pepper them.

Beside her Chang took careful aim and hit one of their opponents in the head. A brilliant shot with a pistol, she thought admiringly.

Even over the sound of gunfire, it was the small sound of breaking branches that warned her. She was already twisting around as two more men broke through the jungle behind them. They both had M-14s with bayonets fixed. One thrust at Balalaika, but she easily blocked with her AK, then pivoting, drove a sharp elbow into his face, knocking off his helmet and stunning him. The other had gone after Chang, but she had no time to follow. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the remaining three men charging and firing.

Dropping to one knee she began methodically squeezing out rounds in their direction.

To the Americans, the AK was a 'bullet hose'. A tough weapon, but hopelessly inaccurate. To Balalaika, it was like a farmer's cherished violin, not concert worthy, but still enjoyable in the hands of a trained artist

She had used no more than six rounds before all three opponents were dead. As she turned to aid Chang, she felt rather than saw the bayonet aimed at her back. Throwing herself down she grimaced as a shallow line of fire ran across her skin, then a boot caught her in the ribs. Part of her mind wondered why Chang hadn't already finished these last two off, but she had no time for questions. The AK's sling snagged on the undergrowth preventing her from bringing it up.

She rolled and saw the blade as it drove towards her body. Her stomach muscles clenched for the inevitable pain. Then the front of her attacker's throat blew out in a spray of blood and .22 caliber bullets.

Looking over, she saw that Chang had turned away from his own attacker to save her. She answered by jerking her AK free and aiming, but it was too late. Chang's attacker had risen up and butt stroked him hard to the side of his head.

As Chang slumped, she fired point blank, almost decapitating his assailant.

Scanning the surroundings, she could see no immediate threats. Quickly, she went through the dead men's equipment, looting them of anything useful. As she paused to take a deep drink from one of the canteens, she realized why Chang had been so ineffective.

It looked like they had the misfortune to walk into a battle between guerrilla and government forces. The first four attackers were Moros, wearing nothing more than camouflage. The last two were in full body armor and wearing American style helmets. Filipino commandos from the look of their shoulder flashes. Chang hadn't been able to put his silly .22 rounds through armor until he got lucky.

Pausing, she had to admit, "Lucky enough to save my life."

Almost against her will, she stripped the medical kit from a commando's belt and went over to see if Chang was still alive.

As sunrise arrived, Balalaika was convinced that she had finally shaken off pursuit. Stopping at a small stream, she dragged Chang under a tree using a travois she had improvised from his raincoat. Checking his bandage she was satisfied the bleeding had stopped. In the growing light, she pulled back his blood sticky eyelids. Both pupils seemed alike but he was not responsive to her touch. With any luck, the concussion was not too severe.

After refilling her canteen she began to orient herself using the area map she had memorized from the briefing. They couldn't be more than a few miles from the coast. There had to be a village nearby, maybe fishermen. Her cell phone was useless in such a remote area, and she had left the satellite phone with Boris.

Wasting a few more precious minutes, she used the stream to scrub some of the blood out of the camo fatigues she had taken off the dead guerilla. Her suit was stuffed into her backpack and the still-too-big boots from the smallest Moro were rubbing her feet raw. Painful or not, in jungle they were far better than her low leather heels.

A few hours later, she broke out of the jungle onto a white sand beach. In the distance, she could see a small pier backed by some fairly modern bamboo and thatch housing.

She approached slowly. "They villagers might be Moros," she thought cautiously. A slow recon showed no signs of life, not even dogs barking.

As she got closer, the smell of smoke hit her nostrils. A good part of the village had been burned and most of the remaining buildings were pockmarked with bullet holes.

There were no bodies though. "They must have evacuated beforehand," she told herself. The largest home was unburnt, but the overturned furniture, broken glassware and general mess indicated it had been thoroughly looted. Straining, she lifted Chang up over the threshold and carried him into the only intact bedroom.

The house had plumbing, but when she tried the taps, she got nothing. Searching around, she found a shed with a medium size portable generator and a half full fuel tank.

Balalaika considered her options. They needed water. "Big payoffs require big risks," she whispered to the hunk of machinery. Pushing the bright green button on the generator she startled by the load roar. She stopped herself from hitting the red kill switch as the noise quickly died down to a smooth idle.

With the door closed, she estimated that the hum of the generator couldn't be heard for more than a few hundred yards. Anyone that close would probably come search the village anyway.

Going back to Chang, she examined his wound. Blood had spread across his face, drying to an appalling mess. Looking around, she found a cracked bowl and some clean cotton towels. Filling the basin she began wiping away the worst of the blood. Some of it had pooled around his eyes, mixing with dirt to a cement-like hardness. She worked hard, but fearful of further bruising his already swollen eyes, she could only do so much.

As she finished cleaning, she could see the worry lines and crow's feet so similar to her own. In some ways, she suspected the similarity was far deeper. "Is that why I am treating him more like a wounded ally than a dangerous enemy?" She asked herself. "Maybe I should have left him back there."

Part of her wanted to believe it just wasn't honorable to abandon him when she owed him a life. A more honest part thought all of that honor crap was a lie, that there was more than a life between them. After three years of continuous sparring, could it honestly be that she felt a certain kinship?

Resorting to rationalization, Balalaika told herself, "If I leave this jungle alone, the Triad will assume I killed him. Now isn't the time for all out war."

Using more cloth, she rebandaged Chang and left him to rest in the bed. Going into the bathroom she examined her reflection. She looked like hell. Worse than that, by her ego's reckoning. She could barely see skin for all the dirt and where the dirt was lacking, chafing sand seemed to fill every nook. Her hair looked like something out of a nightmare fairytale. Besides dirt, leaves and twigs, it had become a nest for leeches and other less identifiable but moving things.

Stripping, she climbed into a small shower. The water was tepid and burned in every scrape and cut, but there was soap.

After 20 minutes the water became noticeably colder, so she stepped out and dried off. She felt much better, but her hair was still a wreck.

She spent a minute looking into the cracked mirror. Sternly, she reminded herself, "Vanity is not tolerable in a soldier." Locating a set of scissors, she began to work.

Thirty minutes later, exhausted, she climbed into large bed next to Chang and fell into a dreamless slumber.

_A/N Thanks for the reviews. Constructive criticism is always welcome_


	3. Chapter 3

**Revelations**

She awoke, startled and ravenous. It was dark outside, and her watch told her it was 5 am. Every muscle in her body seemed to ache.

"Twelve hours of sleep and I could use more," she groaned, "I must be getting old. I never would have felt this way in Afghanistan."

Slinging her AK, she slipped on her boots and stepped into a kitchen filled with broken glass. It took her a little while to restore order, but soon enough she had bread toasting in the oven and eggs frying on the stove.

"My my, don't we look domestic," she heard a croaking voice coming from behind her. She almost unlimbered the AK before realizing it was Chang.

He stood there, eyes swollen to slits, holding onto the door frame like it was the only thing propping him up.

"And you look like shit, Chang," she retorted, motioning him over to a table. Moving quickly she slid slightly burned toast out of the oven and right over the eggs. She then set the pan directly onto the table, handed him a fork, and sat down across from him.

Trying to open eyes still crusted with sleep and blood, Chang asked, "What, no table cloth?"

"Be grateful you're still alive and eat, you baby," she replied.

Using his hand to rub the crust out of one eye he looked at her closely. "DAMN IT," he shouted, "What the hell happened to your hair?"

Astounded by the energy in his voice, she started to reach for the ragged result of her bathroom haircut, but before she could react, his fingers joined hers to touch her now shoulder length mane.

"It was in the way," she said, feeling an unfamiliar heat rush to her face.

Chang paused for a second, then said quietly, stumbling, "No, it's... it's….nice. It just caught me off guard."

Something in his tone made her pull back. She began shoveling the eggs and toast into her mouth to avoid further conversation.

Chang moved more slowly but helped her finish off the pan. As she moved to make more, Chang put both hands up to his head in obvious pain.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"No," he replied weakly. Then with more urgency, "Where's the toilet?"

Realizing what was happening, she got her shoulder under his and hurried him to the bathroom. She helped him kneel in front of the toilet, then went to the sink while he wretched up his meal.

She handed him a damp cloth after he was through.

"Sorry," he said. "I promise you it wasn't the food."

She smiled slightly. "I understand concussions. You aren't the first soldier that's thrown up on my boots."

Chang sat back against the bathroom wall, grinning weakly, "So, I'm a soldier now? That's high praise coming from you."

"Don't take it to seriously, baby," she snapped back, emphasizing the last word. She stood up, throwing a towel onto him. "Now take a shower. You smell like a sewer."

"That's what I love about you, Fry Face," he chuckled. "Always the romantic."

While Chang showered, Balalaika planned. Now that Chang was mobile, they needed to start moving up the beach. There was a likely a larger village further up the coastline. Once she found a phone, they could get back to Roanapur.

The loud thud coming from the bathroom sent her skidding towards the door. When she came through, she saw Chang collapsed against the shower wall, shaking, head lolling weakly to one side.

"Damn it," she snapped. Turning off the water she knelt beside him, two fingers pressed to the burning skin of his neck, searching for a pulse.

Relief hit as she realized he was still alive, but obviously more ill than she had thought. As she sat beside him she scanned for injuries. It was quickly clear he wasn't badly hurt in the fall, but she was unprepared for the affect his nude body was having on her.

"He's rather well…built," she thought to herself, trying not to stare.

She froze as his arm moved, his hand just below her line of sight. She felt the gun barrel pressing under her ribs. Cursing herself for a fool, she gazed into Chang's open feverish eyes.

When nothing happened she looked down, expecting to see the barrel of one of his dragons about to strike. Instead she saw the wooden handle of a bath brush.

"Caught you," he said with a sudden grin.

"Chang, you bastard," she said without much anger, "you're burning up."

"You were looking," he said with a almost drunken giggle that was so unlike his normal self.

For the second time she felt heat rise in her face. "You need to rest," she spat back.

"Of course, Valkyrie. Lead the way," he said.

Again his words shocked her. As she helped shoulder him back into the bedroom she puzzled over her own reactions.

As if sensing her confusion he said slightly more seriously, "Valkyrie, it's what your men call you. Some call you Hel, but that's a mistake I think," he looked sad at the thought.

"How would you know that?"

He giggled again, making her smile in spite of herself. "I bugged their favorite brothel. It's amazing what men say when they're horny."

"That is not amusing," she replied.

As she tried to pull the blanket over him, his hand became suddenly strong, grabbing her collar and pulling her close. His eyes were still feverish but no longer laughing.

"You'll be my Valkyrie when the time comes, won't you?"

She paused, unable to break his gaze.

His other hand rose to stroke her hair gently. "Surely a Heavenly King deserves that much."

She wasn't sure why, but his words confused her, so she resorted to her usual approach.

"Stop it, Chang," she snapped angrily.

His grip was weakening, but his hand continued to touch her hair gently. "You are the first thing of true beauty I've ever seen in Roanapur."

She jerked as his words hit her like one of his 9mm rounds, almost stumbling into the wall behind her in confusion. Chang's head fell back into the pillow. Within seconds, he began snoring.

Balalaika began to search the house. "Somewhere," she hoped, "there has to be a bottle of vodka."

_A/N For all you Balalaika 'shippers out there, sorry about the hair, but there is absolutely no way a soldier in the field could work with that. Hopefully, the situation is believable given both of their characters and vice versa._


	4. Chapter 4

**Conflict**

Vodka did not seem to be the drink of choice in this village. Despite a thorough search she had only been able to find one unbroken bottle and that was cheap rum. On the positive side, she had found more food.

She despised rum, but Russian pragmatism took over. Sitting in the kitchen, she took sips directly from the bottle as she tried to sort through her confused thoughts.

Chang's actions and words had whipsawed her emotions. She had swung from anger, embarrassment, confusion and frustration all within a matter of minutes.

"How can one man be so impossibly maddening?" She asked herself the same question over and over without success.

Finally, after a few hours and half a bottle, she decided to patrol the village.

Outside, she began sweeping the area perimeter. Using cover, moving carefully, she hoped the focused tension of a patrol would clear her mind. This was something she understood. The crucible of battle had a purity and simplicity she loved.

Soldiers were something she also understood. They fell into two categories: loyal comrades and the dead enemies.

But Chang wasn't a soldier. Sometimes he could be ruthlessly honest, capable, brutal and deadly. Their dance of death at the yacht club had given her something to dream about for months. Had it not meant leaving her men alone she would have happily died that day, and she could not stop her mind from reliving those moments with him. Worse yet, subsequent conversations had told her he was just as obsessed with their contest as she was. She deeply feared where this might lead. Her men depended on her. She had sworn to be their Valkyrie, and no other's. That was her promise to them and to herself. She owed them that, but Chang was everything she wanted in a worthy adversary…..sometimes.

Then at others he was playful, teasing, maddening and contradictory. Even though she never gave a sign, he could cut through her veneer of strength and professionalism the way a rapier could pierce the joints of armor. But was that even so awful? A different part of her, a part she ruthlessly suppressed, wanted someone she could talk to. Not just spar with, but share the burdens she had accepted.

At another time she might have wanted more, but that was an option she had had given up for her ambition. There were more than a few ways a woman could hold power, but in the Soviet military there were only two: you could fuck your superiors, or you could lead from the front and kill enough enemies that your men began to believe in you.

After the war, her disgrace and the responsibilities of leading her men had followed her out of the official military and into her new service in the criminal underworld. Even without those factors, she still had her devastating burns to remind her that certain human things were always beyond her grasp. Balalaika had spent months listening to an endless parade of surgeons, doctors and nurses telling her survival was a miracle, then, when they thought she couldn't hear, bemoaning the destruction of her 'beauty'.

Despite the emptiness, she was too much of a realist to waste time mourning the unchangeable.

After twilight, she decided to go back and check on Chang. When she arrived he was on his side sleeping peacefully. His blanket was soaked with sweat, but he was no longer hot to the touch. The swelling on his face had even begun to subside.

Going to the kitchen, she brought back tea and some rice cakes. Chang opened his eyes long enough to gulp down the tea, but fell back asleep before she could get him to eat.

Balalaika busied herself rounding up more supplies for their eventual departure, cleaning her weapons and feeding herself. Occasionally she could get Chang to stay awake long enough to drink something and eat a bite or two, but she quickly ran out of chores and dropped back into the bed next to Chang, exhausted.

The warm sea breeze was pleasant, its clean smell so different from the normal stench of rotting seaweed around Roanapur. The yacht club band was even playing a passable waltz. Her mother had believed that all young girls should be able to dance, so even decades later, the steps came naturally.

As she moved her red evening gown slid sinuously against Chang's silk tuxedo. She could tell he lacked her training, but he still moved with a serpent's grace. Neither of them were truly leading the dance as much as mirroring each other.

Despite the Tokarev's hidden sheath pressing a hard reminder against her thigh, she was loathe to end the dance so soon. Being pressed against Chang, feeling the smooth caress of his breath against her face, was bringing an addictive tingle to her body.

"So Balalaika," Chang spoke softly into her ear, "when do you want to start this?"

She looked around, but the club was empty. Even the band was gone, the soft music coming from somewhere unseen. She knew she should be wondering where her security team was, but it just didn't seem important.

She felt his fingers reaching up to twine in her mass of blonde hair, her own hand reaching through the high slit in her dress and unclipping the small holster's safety strap.

"What is it you want, Chang?" she whispered into his ear, the Tokarev sliding up against his hard abs and chest.

His head pulled back slightly and his eyes met hers. His usual smirk was gone, replace with as soft smile offering endless possibilities.

As if just repeating another step of the dance, she let the pistol slip from her fingers and covered his lips with hers. Balalaika's hands began to move with an urgency across his back, trying to pull him closer.

"Fry Face, would you knock it off? I'm awake already," Chang said in a sleepy voice.

Her eyes snapped open. She was lying next to Chang, facing his back with her hands tight on his shoulders. She let go and twisted off the bed, facing the window, her face bright red. Covering, she snapped in her best parade ground voice, "It's about time, Chang. We need to make preparations and get out of here."

She heard the rustle of blankets as he sat up with a pained groan. "Goddamit, I'm not one of your toy soldiers. I'll get up when I am damned good and ready."

"You've been useless long enough, Chang. Make some breakfast while I get cleaned up." She snarled back, but even their typical banter wasn't enough to shake her arousal. She moved rapidly out of the room wondering why her body would choose now to react like this. She took the opportunity to shower again, enjoying every last drop of hot water. Feeling much calmer, she dressed again and found Chang sitting in the kitchen. He was waiting for her at the small table wearing an ill-fitting dark t-shirt and loose white cotton trousers. She safed her AK and set it leaning into a nearby corner.

Chang set down a pan of badly burned rice pudding and greasy sausages. Balalaika picked up her fork and poked at the food with unconcealed distaste. He watched her for a few seconds. "What's wrong," he asked sarcastically, "not up to your high standards?"

She almost smiled as the icy calm dropped over her like armor. It was so preferable to her previous confusion. "I doubt this is up to the standards of the UG Pork, Chang, but feel free to enjoy it."

"You asked me to make breakfast, Fry Face, so you're damn well going to eat it," he said, shoving the pan closer to her.

"Now, now, Chang. I thought you'd be used to your shortcomings by now. Why let your worthless abilities as a chef bother you?" she asked acidly.

"You know, you are a real bitch without a goddammed platoon of berserkers following you around to worship at your feet. Fucking eat already," he said and shoved the pan into her lap.

Jumping smoothly back, she avoided the worse of the mess but lost her temper at last. She grabbed her AK and used the butt to drive Chang back towards the wall. His hands snaked behind him, reaching for his dragons, but then his concussed head smacked into the wall and both weapons dropped to the floor from numb hands.

For a moment, Chang stood against the wall, the butt of Balalaika's AK pinning him there like an exotic butterfly.

When she pulled back, he slowly slid down the wall onto the floor. "Do it," he said, the pain of his injuries evident in his voice. "It's what you've always wanted."

She stood there wordless, the AK held in one hand at her side, shocked that she'd let Chang provoke her this way.

He continued, "This must have been a laugh riot for you. What was funnier, seeing me this weak or listening to me babble like a love struck school boy? Come on Fry Face, it's payback. I whipped your ass back at the yacht club; now you get it back in spades."

She knelt down and slapped him hard in the face, unable to control her rage yet again. The original cut on the side of his head had opened again and blood formed a small river down the side of his neck.

"You want to talk about payback, Chang?" she replied, her voice all the deadlier for its calm quiet. "You sit there poolside, in your penthouse, sipping fine scotch, lording it over your kingdom. Sending your men out like so many hyenas competing with my lions." She paused taking a deep breath. "Of course every one of mine is worth twenty of yours, or the Mafia's or the Cartel's. But each of mine is precious, irreplaceable. They aren't my worshippers, Chang, they are my men, my comrades, my soul. For every one of them that's wounded, I bleed. For every one killed, part of me dies. Can your pathetic life repay all that I have lost?"

For a moment his eyes sheared away from hers.

"I thought not," she said, her heavily scarred eye gleaming with its own blue fire.

She stood then, slinging her AK and walking into front room. Grabbing the backpack, she had filled with part of their supplies she marched out of the house.

_A/N Once again thanks to my editor the incomparable Unkeptsecret. Also, thanks for the reviews. _


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